It's Starting to Show
by p0ck3tf0x
Summary: France, Prussia, and Spain struggle with their attraction to their charges that have the memories of a lifetime and the bodies of children. It was becoming more and more difficult to uphold their morals… and it was starting to show.


_Summary: France, Prussia, and Spain struggle with their attraction to their charges that have the memories of a lifetime and the bodies of children. It was becoming more difficult to uphold their morals… and it was starting to show._

_Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete._

_The lyrics to the song that inspired this piece are located at the end. The name of the song is 'The Infant Kiss' by Kate Bush and it sets the tone for the whole piece._

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><p><em>New France and Canada are one in the same, more or less; New France was the name for the collection of settlements that were under the control of France from the 1500s to the 1700s.<em>

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><p><strong>It's Starting to Show<strong>

France carried the child into the bedroom and set him on the edge of the elegant chest of drawers. New France dangled his feet in subtle impatience as France rummaged through the cotton and lace of the top drawer in search of a nightgown. His expression was dispassionate and without emotion as he watched France with careful consideration.

He plucked a beautiful one with white lace trimmings and a large red ribbon and presented it to the child. New France cocked his head to the side.

His gaze shifted between France and the garment but his lack of expression never faltered. It was unnerving.

The child had never said more than two words to him since his arrival in the New World and those words had been less than pleasant. He was not impressed with the occupation of his land or the displacement of his children, and in the same situation, France would have kicked up much more of a fuss. Despite this, the child was complacent, temperate, and well mannered.

But he might as well have been mute and it drove France near madness.

New France granted him some reprieve when his stare settled on the nightgown and he raised one of his eyebrows in distaste. France chuckled and tangled his fingers through his blonde curls. He tucked one of the strands behind his ear in affection.

"Sweet, please. It's bedtime."

The child continued to stare at the white lace as if the concept of nightclothes escaped him, and perhaps it did, but after a couple decades of occupation it should seem common to him now. France cradled the curve of his cheek and bent down so that New France shifted his attention back to the nation.

His lavender gaze was breathtaking and intense and a little strange. It was too much. Although his stature was that of a child, his eyes were tainted with age and wisdom and a touch of sensuousness.

France paused regardless of his determination to not lose himself in that impossible stare once again; it had awakened thoughts and desires he would rather ignore. He had never fallen for a child before.

And he did not want to now.

"Please," he found his voice and stepped back, "please, just put it on."

New France tugged his shirtsleeves over his head in one fluid, teasing motion. He watched him through narrowed eyes as he let the cloth slide through his fingers and to the floor and France worried that he could see through him. The child sat, poised, without a stitch on and continued to kick his feet without shivering in the cold.

Still, not one word to break the silence.

France slipped the nightgown over his head and fastened the three buttons down the back of his neck. New France wrapped his arms around France as he carried him from the drawers to the bed covered in bolster pillows, coverlets, and tasselled corners.

France set him down in the centre of the great mattress and it accented his slight stature. The child seemed to drown in a sea of sapphire silks and silver brocade. New France scrambled to the head of the bed and allowed France to tuck him beneath the warm coverlets.

There was a routine to these motions but...

France settled on the side of the bed and tied the loose red ribbon on his nightgown in a knot. His hands lingered a moment too long on his diminutive chest and New France covered them with his own smaller hands.

Tonight was different.

"Good night," France whispered.

His gaze was too intense.

The child leant forward and tilted his face upwards to seal a kiss over his lips. France had begged for 'good night kisses' in the past but had been ignored time and time again. He had been expecting a chaste kiss on the cheek but this was more than he had bargained for; it was forward and searching and shameless. It was not the kiss of a child but rather that of the man behind those eyes.

It was thrilling.

It was frightening.

It was too much.

France was the one to break the kiss. He pushed backwards and frowned down at the child but he was already settling back into the pillows with the ghost of a smile on his expressionless face.

Perhaps it was another cultural tradition lost in translation but, somehow, he doubted it.

France almost stumbled as he leapt off of the mattress and darted towards the door with as much grace as he could manage. His fingers had just curled around the doorknob when a soft sound drifted from the pillows.

"Good night," New France whispered; his first words spoken with some semblance of kindness.

France closed the wooden door behind him with more force than necessary and let his shaking knees guide him to the floor. He covered his mouth in shock, or awe, or horror, or perhaps all three. There were butterflies in his stomach and their presence sickened him. His lips were burning from the kiss of a child.

He slumped against the door and raised his sight to the heavens in search of forgiveness.

It was too much.

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><p>Prussia stomped into the tent and swept the maps and diagrams off of the makeshift table in the centre. He growled as he crumpled the priceless parchment and tossed it around. He bit down on his lip hard enough to elicit bleeding but the pain just made him bite down harder.<p>

"Fuck. Shit. Fuck."

Germany sat in the corner with his nose buried in a bound tome of tactics but he peeked over the edge with a frown as Prussia messed the tent.

"Are you... Alright?"

"No, I'm not _fucking_ alright. We were flanked and I lost most of the left _fucking_ division."

Prussia kicked a chair over and one of the legs splintered on impact. He stamped on the pieces a couple more times before sighing and slumping to the ground; clutching at his hair in frustration. Germany closed the volume in a shower of dust and slipped from his own chair.

The child came up to his hips and no further. His outfit was spotless and without creases while each of his buckles was carefully polished. There was not one strand of his blonde hair out of place. Prussia was well aware that it was not his influence that kept the nation so neat.

He wandered to a steamer trunk at the far edge of the tent and pried it open with minuscule fingers. He shifted some clothes and trinkets to the side and found a bottle of bronze liquor.

He carried it over to Prussia and pressed it into his hand.

"Drink."

"Ah..." Prussia popped the cork and poured the liquid down his throat. "That's better."

"No it's not," his frown deepened as he sat down in front of him.

Prussia drained the bottle with a hiccup. As a soldier, there was not much he despised more than a lost battle, except perhaps lost lives. It was useless for a general or commander or strategist to care for the loss of an individual life. It accomplished little. In spite of that...

He felt responsible.

Germany wrapped his arms around his knees and watched Prussia. He found it unnerving. His cerulean stare was always measuring and calculating and Prussia was still not used to the attention. Most of his soldiers tried to keep out of his warpath and steer clear of his glare. Germany seemed to seek it out and he was not intimidated by his grumbled curses or violent nature.

"Fuck off."

"No."

"Fuck off."

"No."

"... Fine then..."

Germany tilted his head to the side.

"What happened?"

"They're all dead."

"Oh."

"I don't care."

The blonde pressed his small hand against Prussia's chest and over his heart. It might have been the alcohol, but the contact made Prussia uncomfortable. What should have been an honest and innocent gesture did not feel like it at the moment; it felt sexual and intimate. It was too much.

Austria would have found his deviant thoughts disgraceful and indecent.

But... His hand was warm.

"Of course you care," Germany sighed as if Prussia was hopeless and his fingers crinkled the lapel of his uniform.

Prussia despised when someone saw straight through him and his bluster more than a lost battle or lost lives. It was infuriating and somehow endearing in the same breath, and made worse by the fact that he had no idea who was behind that stare. The child had been claiming amnesia since Prussia had found him but sometimes he wondered how much of it was true. Germany seemed as if he knew more than he was willing to share, and to be honest, Prussia would have been disappointed if he was open and vulnerable. He kept his own emotions to himself and it would be a failure on his part if his charge was susceptible to such sentiments.

Yet, this child knew all of his weaknesses whether he said a word or not.

The touch of his hand was suddenly scorching.

Prussia jostled Germany with a firm shove. He tried to stand up and abandon the scene but the alcohol had him lilting and his exit was less than dignified.

"Get off of me."

He stumbled through the tent and into the chaos of the encampment.

These temptations were dangerous. He was better off to ignore the stirring of his heart and the child who knew just what needed to be said to soothe his wounds.

Germany had too much influence over him and his weaknesses.

It was dangerous for him to be so close.

It was too much.

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><p>Spain wandered into the bedroom to find Southern Italy in a state of undress. His emerald pinafore was tangled around his ankles and the kerchief in his hair was lopsided. Spain glanced at the placard nailed to the wooden door, and sure enough, he was in the right place. This was his bedroom and he wondered what reason his charge had to change here instead of in his own bedroom further down the hall.<p>

"Help me, asshole."

It was as if the child were testing his restraint. This was the third time in a week that Spain had found him in such a position and he was beginning to suspect that he was setting these scenes up on purpose.

"Ah, how adorable! You are quite the mess!"

"Fuck you."

France had complained that his charge was silent and Prussia had said that his had a subtle and courteous manner. Southern Italy, on the other hand, was obnoxious and crass.

"Ah, you should not say such things!" Spain crossed the chamber and knelt in front of him. He straightened the kerchief and plucked the multitude of petticoats from their twisted nest at his feet. Southern Italy frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, and turned his back on Spain.

Spain was distracted by the curve of his lower back and the dimples there.

Southern Italy possessed the stature of a child and the passion of a grown man. He was slight and delicate and his olive stare could captivate sovereign or peasant. He was beautiful, not handsome, and it caught him off guard at inopportune times.

Such as at this moment.

"What are you staring at, pervert?"

Spain shook his head of such thoughts and continued to smile as he smoothed the folds of the pinafore.

"Lovi..."

"I know what it is; you want to fuck me."

Spain was so shocked, and it was only his astonishment that kept his hand from lashing out at the child. The accusation was unexpected and wounding.

"I've seen you watching me."

Spain felt his smile slipping from its permanent position.

"They've seen you watching me in the New World, for fuck's sake. You want to bend me over and fuck me. I know."

The words tumbling from his lips were that of a man and not of a child and each one disturbed Spain more than the last. His fingers curled into a fist.

"You want me."

When had he become so obvious?

Southern Italy was smirking as he dusted his fingers over the forbidden fruit of his collarbone in suggestion and tilted his head to the side for access. He was cold and manipulative for once in his life and it unnerved Spain that the child who never even noticed the change of seasons had noticed this, the one truth he had been keeping tucked in his heart; that his charge stirred more than simple affection in him.

It was disgusting and yet...

No. It was too dangerous. Those kind of thoughts would lead to madness.

It was too much.

Spain plastered his smile once more across his face and the suddenness of it must have surprised Southern Italy because he stepped back. His trailing fingers came to a pause.

"You are so strange!" He pushed the words past his clenched teeth. "So strange! I do not know what you are talking about."

He thrust the pinafore back at the child and resisted the temptations that were cascading through his mind in a menagerie of unhelpful scenarios.

"You no longer require my assistance; I think that we are done here."

Spain wanted to reach out and touch the child.

"But..."

"I. Think. That. We. Are. Done. Here." His smile became a little wilder with each word.

It was too much.

"Oh... Alright." It seemed that Southern Italy was bothered by his out of character reaction, and Spain wondered what kind of reaction he had been hoping for by presenting himself in such a fashion. He worried the fabric of the garment anxiously between his small hands and Spain almost apologized.

Almost.

It was his fault, after all, for dragging this out into the open. Spain needed to stop this before the child was able to see straight through him. He was well aware that Southern Italy would not relinquish his control if he knew how much power he held over Spain.

Spain stalked to the exit and rested his palm on the handle.

"I do," he whispered in agreement to one of the earlier accusations, or perhaps all of them, and he could not be sure whether the child had heard him or not. He was not sure whether he wanted him to or not.

He pressed down on the handle and slipped through the doorframe before closing it behind him. The fingers of his left hand were still curled into a fist and his nails were biting into the palm of his hand to highlight his slipping restraint.

It was too much.

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><p>The three nations stood in the entrance and watched as their charges clustered in the corner of the chamber. Southern Italy was tossing stuffed animals around and stomping on them while New France was instead snuggling them. Germany was ignoring the stuffed animals altogether and instead reading.<p>

He caught a stuffed animal before it could hit him, without looking up from his tome, and pitched it back to Southern Italy. The brunette snatched it and handed it to New France with a derisive snort. Germany rolled his eyes.

France, Prussia, and Spain would come together every month or two as friends instead of as nations, and their charges were introduced to each other each time in hopes of them cultivating a friendship of their own.

"How sweet," Spain said but his usual enthusiasm was a bit flat.

"Ah, yes, the frivolities of youth," France sighed.

"It's not fucking sweet. It's strange; they're strange. We're strange," Prussia growled and France rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I do not want to talk about it. I don't care. I don't fucking care." He seemed to be making a point but the other nations could not be sure what it was. Spain returned to the children and watched as Southern Italy beckoned the other two closer. He whispered a couple of words that the nations could not hear but New France and Germany obviously could; New France dropped his stuffed animals and Germany slammed the tome shut with a resounding thwack.

Germany glanced at Prussia, paused, and whispered something back. New France crept forward and added his own thoughts to the mysterious conversation.

Spain nudged Prussia, who in turn nudged France.

"I thought he did not speak."

"..."

"Well?"

"I do not want to talk about it."

Southern Italy cackled and it echoed across the room. He gestured with his hands in explanation and New France had to leap backwards to avoid them. Germany whispered something else and Southern Italy burst into another fit of laughter.

Spain turned an odd shade of green.

"What are they talking about?"

"I'm sure I have no idea," France replied but he also seemed ill at ease.

New France pointed at the nations and added another thought. Germany nodded his head in solemn agreement while Southern Italy instead shook his head. He said something that seemed to surprise the other children. All three of them were silent for a moment before collapsing to the floor in childish laughter that belied their serious conversation.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Prussia mocked Spain and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Not at all."

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><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_This piece was written a while ago and I was unsure of it but I have decided to post it._

_The lines between child and adult are purposely blurred throughout this piece and that confusion should be palatable. The concept of a national representative is an interesting one because the form does not necessarily match the age. For instance, China appears to be quite young in Hetalia but we know him to be thousands of years old. In these three scenarios, inspired by this song, we see how complicated this can be. It's a touch... Dark and hopeless with a dash of forbidden. Hmmm..._

_This piece is inspired, from beginning to end, by the song 'The Infant Kiss' by Kate Bush. The lyrics are posted at the bottom but it might be worth a listen. Kate Bush is much better known in the United Kingdom but I have such a soft spot for her because my mother has been listening to her since before I was born. Many of her songs could be considered a bit odd and most of them are inspired by novels, events, or people._

_This song inspired this piece in not just words but also tone. There is a rising desperation in her voice as the song progresses and I tried to capture at least some aspect of that. The first eight lines inspired the scene with France. The following lines nine through fourteen were for Prussia. Twenty seven through to thirty two were highlighted with Spain. That said, the song bleeds through each of the scenes and I will let you pick it apart. _

_**Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. You are free to leave an anonymous review; I do not mind. Please let me know what you think of this piece.**_

_The Infant Kiss by Kate Bush:_

_I say good night-night, / I tuck him in tight. / But things are not right. / What is this? An infant kiss / That sends my body tingling? / I've never fallen for / A little boy before. / No control._

_Just a kid and just at school. / Back home they'd call me dirty. / His little hand is on my heart. / He's got me where it hurts me. / Knock, knock. Who's there in this baby? / You know how to work me._

_All my barriers are going. / It's starting to show. / Let go. Let go. Let go._

_I cannot sit and let / Something happen I'll regret. / Ooh, he scares me! / There's a man behind those eyes. / I catch him when I'm bending. / Ooh, how he frightens me / When they whisper privately. / ("Don't let go!") / Windy-wailey blows me. _

_Words of caress on their lips / That speak of adult love. / I want to smack but I hold back. / I only want to touch. / But I must stay and find a way / To stop before it gets too much!__!_

_All my barriers are going. / It's starting to show. / Let go. Let go. Let go. / (Don't let go!)_


End file.
